An Ideal Place
by gentillealouette
Summary: Isshushipping drabbles.
1. An Ideal Place

I like drabbles, but I don't like uploading them on their own. So this 'story' is going to just be an ongoing dump of isshushipping oneshots shorter than 1000 words. (If I write about other Pokémon pairings, and I most certainly will, they will probably go in here too.) So having gotten that out of the way, this is a week or two old and...was actually meant to be more explicit, but I'm useless at writing smut haha. So. Enjoy!

**An Ideal Place (539 words)**

N woke with the sensation of falling. His chest heaved and his eyes brimmed with tears, though he couldn't remember any nightmares. His breaths were muffled against the fabric of Black's shirt.

He took stock of his surroundings as he began to calm down; he lay on the top bunk in the room he and Black shared (the bottom empty), cradled in the boy's arms, face hidden in his shoulder. It was still dark, but N sensed the sun beginning to reach through the curtains. He wondered, shutting his eyes to press his face closer against Black's chest, at the sensation of their legs tangled together. The closeness was completely alien to him. Comforting, though, somehow.

N became aware, with a mild flush of embarrassment, that he was naked from the waist down.

The realisation brought back, with mortifying clarity, the memory of the night before.

N had never been one for physical insecurity; for as long as he could remember, he had been poked, prodded and touched from every angle and with all conceivable intentions, by the Triad, by the Sages, by Ghetsis. He regarded his body with a certain detached dignity. Usually, he would simply disconnect and shut off if anybody touched him; indeed, initially he'd treated Black exactly the same way. But there was something about Black's eyes that evening that couldn't be explained by any of N's formulae; some electricity that effectively disarmed the young King, weakened his defences. And - in all honesty - that frightened N. It frightened him that anybody could break through his barriers like that.

But there had been no selfishness in Black's touch, no malevolence. Only tenderness. He just wanted to make N happy. And, reluctant though N may have been to admit it, he had. Afterwards, as he slumped, shaking his head and trying to catch his breath, against the wall, Black had pressed careful, gentle lips to the hollow by his hipbone, his navel, his chest, his neck. Pulled him into his arms and held him there, awkward and unsure, but sincere.

"I love you," Black had mumbled, timidly, afraid it was the wrong answer to an unspoken question. N didn't know.

He pulled back and the boy's arms loosened around him in sleep; searched his face in the lifting darkness. A lock of hair fell across his brow and his mouth hung slightly open, the soft, rhythmic breaths filling N's ears. It was an equation N couldn't quite solve, a grey area in his perfectly composed black-and-white world that didn't add up. Black had ruined everything. Black had challenged everything that made N himself. And now Black slept contentedly opposite him, dreaming of happy-go-lucky adventures and Castelia Cones, sheltered and indecisive, so steadfastly opposed to all that N held dear and willing at the same time to hold him and tell him that he loved him. It wasn't fair.

"If people did not exist," N recited softly, "this would be an ideal place."

And he watched Black's young face scrunch up blearily as he stirred, the guileless eyes open halfway, and he tried to believe it.

"You have been chosen, you know," N said. "Does it surprise you I said that?"


	2. Nothing, Nothing, Nothing

This isn't strictly a drabble, but I think it's too short to upload on its own anyway...exam block stress in text form haha. Trigger warning for abuse and stuff

**Nothing, Nothing, Nothing (1 005 words)**

The darkness presses in around him, crushes the breath out of his lungs and jams his eyes back into their sockets, and he reaches blindly for something, anything to ease the pressure, to still the trembling of his limbs. His breaths shudder, never make it down his throat and into his lungs.

N is having a nightmare.

He is locked in a cage, his wings clipped; claws are ripped one by one from his paws; his flame sputters and dies in the rain, his quivering shell is crushed under a cruel leather boot. Strong hands force him face down to the ground, rip the clothes from his hips; hot, perverse lips press themselves to his neck, and N is screaming and screaming _please, oh, father, father, no_, arms outstretched in supplication, but nobody comes – nobody ever comes. N thinks _warped, defective, unworthy_. N thinks _failure_. N understands nothing. N is nobody.

And then suddenly, a cool hand is on his face, the pain subsides, and the pressure is relieved:

"N," whispers a voice. "N, can you hear me? Look at me, N."

N gasps and gasps again, opens his eyes, and begins to cry.

Black's heart sinks, and he stoops to pull N into his arms, stroking his hair. It is the middle of the night and N's futon on Black's floor is dishevelled, the pillow damp. "It wasn't real," Black tells the King, who lies limp against him, weeping quietly. "N, it was just a dream."

_Just a dream_. But it wasn't. All of N's dreams are real: perhaps not in Black's world, but in the real world, the world where humanity isn't inherently _good _like Black seems to think it is, there is more pain than either of them could imagine, and it is real – all of it. How could Black ever understand? Sheltered little Black. Happy little Black. The worst pain that Black has ever experienced was during the months that N was gone.

_Hero of truth, _thinks N, and wants to scream.

He pulls away, and rubs his eyes, sitting upright. The skin around Black's eyes is marked by ugly purple bruises, his hair unkempt, his face screwed up with the residue of sleep; his fingernails chewed to nearly nothing. "It was just a dream," he repeats, and his voice is heavy with something N feels as if he should understand, but doesn't. He doesn't understand anything Black tries to tell him, and this frustrates him.

"How would you know, Black?" he rasps, quietly. "How would you know it was a dream?"

Black's prow puckers in confusion. "N, you – the door was locked," he attempts to explain. "It was just you and me in this room, your…your whimpering woke me up –"

"Shut up." N cuts him off, and bows his head, clutching at it with both hands. His head fills with static.

Black hesitates. Reaches out, tentatively, and touches N's wrist. "N –"

"Shut up!" N slaps his hand away, physically; rocks up on his heels. Black backs off. N hisses at him, a hint of something inhuman in his voice, hands tensed into stiff, dangerous claws. "Black, you don't understand _anything_. Don't even try. I don't want you near me."

Something changes in the boy's face; wavers, but doesn't break. He smiles, uncertainly. "I want to understand, N," he quavers. "I'm trying –"

N slaps him. He doesn't mean to, but it happens. _Warped, defective, unworthy – _Black's head is thrown to the side, hitting the wooden bedframe with a _clunk_.

"How dare you?" he growls. "How _dare_ you? Hero of truth, you know _nothing. _You can't even _hear_."

A long silence passes between them. Black stares, eyes pricked with tears, at his friend. "What did you dream, N?" he whispers.

– _warped –_

"Nothing," N says, through gritted teeth.

"Please."

– _failure failure failure –_

And N is on his feet, grabbing the boy by the collar of his shirt, slamming him against the wall, and with their faces so close he can hear the shudders in Black's breath, see the tears in his eyelashes. He shakes him, hard; hears the _thunk _of his head hitting the wood. Black cries out.

"Please _what_?" N roars, shaking him again, hard. One hand comes to Black's throat, fastens itself there. "Please _what_, Black?"

"Let me go," he gasps. "I'm sorry."

– _and N __is face-down again, and his body is wracked by horrible, unimaginable pain, inside him, ripping him in half, and a familiar voice whispers in his ear, cruelly, mockingly:_

"_Your Majesty."_

The young, round face before N transforms, morphs into someone familiar: paler, more angular. N sees, for one moment, his reflection in the seafoam grey eyes: he sees a square jaw, thin lips, a lined face with one glaring, red eye. He sees Ghetsis.

– _unworthy_

"You are nothing," he tells the boy, and his voice shudders and cracks under the weight of his loathing, and the boy lets out a rasping, unintelligible plea. "Nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing –"

– _but a warped, defective boy who understands nothing but Pok__émon – a freak without a human heart –_

Black begins to cry, and something snaps in N; he lets the younger hero go, and he falls limply to his knees. N steps back, and in the darkness, the boy's sobs fill the room. Sobs and buzzing. White noise. N sinks to his knees too, opposite Black, who massages his throat and fights to hold N's gaze.

"I could help you," he wails, "I could love you, N, if you'd just let me."

"You can't," N says, flatly, but softly. "Nobody can."

Black lapses again into tears, drawing his knees to his chin, and N watches him, face betraying no further emotion. He will not become Ghetsis, he swears to himself, ever. He will live his entire life alone if it means he won't hurt anybody. "I'm sorry Black," he says. "You…you aren't the one who is – nothing…"

"Oh, N," Black breathes, head still bowed. "Oh, N."

_Oh, N._

_Oh, Father._

N despairs.


	3. Glowing

I just wanted to write something happy. and something in which N isn't being a big pile of sads. so here is this

**Glowing (803 words)**

Black watches the ground drop away beneath them, palms pressed to the glass, smiling. The milling crowds below shrink and expand, like a trail of ants to honey. As the carriage ascends, the glittering lights of Nimbasa fill his eyes.

N studies him, sitting at the opposite corner of the carriage, with careful eyes – not that he doesn't already know him by heart; the soft, stocky physique, the small hands with their delicate wrists, the dimples patterning his cheeks when he smiles. Somehow, he is transfixing – more so than the matchbox city of Nimbasa sprawling beneath them, more so than the subtle clicks and growls of the Ferris wheel's formulae in motion; more so than anything. N is being taken hold of slowly by a feeling he doesn't quite understand, one which simultaneously turns his limbs to lead and fills them with helium, makes his heart swell up in his chest, his lungs fill with sand. He cannot decide whether to smile or cry.

He settles for a sigh. "Black," he says, and the boy turns his head to look N in the eyes. "Do you remember the first time I brought you here?"

Black smiles vaguely. "Of course. How could I forget?"

"I told you," N reminisces, "that I was the King of Team Plasma. And you were to be my ally in separating people from Pokémon."

"In retrospect, it wasn't very romantic."

"No." N laughs.

Black leans against the glass and the two Heroes look each other up and down quietly, contentedly. N pats the bench next to him, jerking his chin at the boy. "Come and sit with me."

Black complies, and N wraps one arm around his shoulder as if it's the most natural thing in the world. The brunet leans into his shoulder, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. He feels warm and steady and heartening, pressing into N's side, and N presses a firm kiss to his forehead, his grip tightening.

"We both messed up, N," Black breathes.

"Yes."

"But we're doing a lot better, aren't we?"

"I'd say so," says N, and smiles lopsidedly. "I am. Thank you."

Black opens his eyes again and lifts his face to N's. N smiles bemusedly as Black studies him, an unusually serious expression on his face. "You look happier," he says suddenly. "Your eyes are brighter; the skin around them is less pouchy. You're not sallow anymore, N, You look happy." He pauses. "I think you might be glowing. Just a little bit."

N blinks, and then feels his face split into a wide smile before he can stop himself. (It has been a very, very long time since N smiled like that.) He brings one hand to Black's cheek, cups it, presses his face between his palms, rests his forehead against his; he might be crying, but he can't be sure. "And whose fault is that, Black?" he murmurs, and kisses him once on the lips, and then pulls back and continues, "whose fault is that? Whose fault is it that I'm happy? Whose fault is it that I'm glowing?"

Laughing, Black pulls him closer, and the Ferris wheel grinds to a halt as the Heroes hold each other close and exchange nervous kisses and irrelevant anecdotes, and then more kisses, and then less anecdotes. N presses Black against the window and grips his young shoulders and kisses the bridge of his nose, his cheek, his nose again, his other cheek, and whispers _I love you I love you I love you _until his voice is hoarse, until his hands cannot stop themselves from sliding under Black's shirt and along his skin, until his ears ring with the boy's whimpers and groans, and he kisses down his neck and along his collarbone and Black clutches at his shoulders and gives a shuddering sigh and urges him on and then, convulsing conspicuously, the Ferris wheel lurches off again, and N breaks away, panting. The younger trainer meets his eyes hazily, cheeks tinted pink, biting his lower lip, and N kisses him again, quickly, one last time. _I am glowing and it is because of you._

When the carriage comes at last to the ground again, Black manages to stay steady on his feet, but insists on holding N's hand anyway; with the boy's face buried in his sleeve and his fingers clasping his own as if his very life depended on it, it is not difficult for N to put in perspective their first ride's lack of romanticism, their respective mistakes. They have, after all, all the time in the world to make amends to each other, to love each other.

"I love you," mumbles Black, and slumps back against N's side again as they walk from the Amusement Park. "Oh, N. We're doing much, much better."


End file.
